


a punch to the gut

by Jayde_Spell



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: A US person writing about a British character forgive me, Anxiety, Eames is too sweet, I created an entirely life for him before the movie, Illiteracy, Implied Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, M/M, Poor Eames, Self Esteem Issues, a little ooc, ariadne is done, arthur is an asshole, wrote parents for eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 21:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17433566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jayde_Spell/pseuds/Jayde_Spell
Summary: The first time he meets Arthur, it's raining. He's running towards a hotel he's supposed to meet his new crew mates at, when he catches sight of a man who is also running out of the rain. He's taller than Eames, and in a drop-dead gorgeous suit that would have cost more than Eames's salary in the past four years. But when they make eye contact, James can't help the stutter in his heartbeat. He's in love.





	a punch to the gut

**Author's Note:**

> Non-Beta’d. Clearing space in my phone by publishing one fic at a time (; please be gentle

Sarah knew she was in love with Michael the very first time she saw him. She hadn't really believed in love at first sight before, but she couldn't deny it that day. It was while she was visiting her mum's side of the family in London, and she remembers it had been raining hard. The hotel they were staying at was larger, larger than anything back home, and she stood gaping at it for a near hour before going in. There was a bellhop, twenty-ish or so with blonde hair and green eyes, and she knew right then, right there, that this was it. 

They marry immediately after she graduated from university and within two years became pregnant with their very first child. It's going to be boy, Michael insists on it being a girl, but Sarah knows different. She's going to have a son. James Tyler is born in Brighton, on a rainy day. He's born with the thickest, wildest black hair, and bright blue eyes, just like his mother. She's is in love from day one. 

It's day four when the doctors realize something is wrong. Sarah is so, so glad that her baby boy isn't the one who's sick. She knows that she doesn't have a lot of time left, so she makes sure to dote on her child, hold her boy until her arms are too weak to carry him. Until she's too weak to hold him. She loves him and she weeps until she can no longer. Her son looks up at her and his little hand reaches for her, reaches and reaches until there's nothing for him to reach for anymore. 

Michael is a sick man. He knows this, knows it the second he and his wife are informed of her condition. He knows it's wrong the second he looks at their son, their son, and he hates him with so much passion he feels dizzy and sick and wrong. This is the last piece of his sweet Sarah, his last goddamn piece, but he can't appreciate it. Doesn't cherish it like he knows he should. The boy won't stop crying. He isn't alone. 

James is four the first time his father lays a hand on him. He's too much like his mother, every single atom of him is a painful reflection of Sarah. Sometimes

he thinks 

that James is purposefully imitating her, from the pout of his lip to his toothy smile. Sometimes he picks up the bottle just so he can escape this hell. Sometimes doesn't mean sometimes anymore.

Mr. Tyler has had too much to drink. Too much. To. Drink. His vision is cloudy and he thinks he can see Sarah 

(she's smiling the biggest smile he's ever seen)  
(he knows he's a goner as soon as he looks at her)  
(Sarah? Where are you?) 

smiling in the kitchen. But. Something is off. His brow furrows. His Sarah was almost eye level with him. This isn't Sarah. He feels the rage lick at his spine like a whip. It's growing from head to toe and he hates.

The boy isn't smiling anymore and some part of him feels glad, and another feels sickeningly weak. 

He's had too much to drink. 

(he always has too much to drink) 

They live in a small town. It's only a matter of time until people start asking questions. So they move. 

James learns that there is no such thing as a home. 

He's ten when a teacher figures out that he can't read. The constant state of motion, the constant, constant, moving makes it impossible - and soon teachers just assume James can read. Assume he can read and continue to further him in primary school, but they're wrong. When that concerned teacher calls his father he receives an ass-whooping of a lifetime. He can't sit comfortably for days. His back is stinging. 

Sundays are his favorite days. When his father pulls out a bottle of gin with the morning paper, and James can just observe. He loves the newspaper. He loves that there's pictures, so he can understand some of it to an extent, and he loves the feel. The letters, the fine print, he's hungry for this. 

James learns that he has sort of an obsession. Infatuation with print, with paper and binding, for something he doesn't understand. He's been stealing books. From libraries, schools, when the people in the next apartment leave for the grocery he teaches himself to pick a locks and holy shit they have a lot of books. 

He hides them underneath his bed. Wherever he goes, he puts them under his bed. Hides them on the bottom of suitcases. Sometimes he stares at them for hours. Sometimes he caresses it with his hands. His fingers running over ink, over leather when he gets lucky, over paperback. Sometimes he can't even stand to look at them. Sometimes he feels sick to his stomach and his vision gets blurry when he looks at them. Sometimes it makes him cry. 

When he turns twelve, he decides he wants to be somebody else. He figures this out in class, when he first sees Chrisfromlondon. He's big. Bigger than James and strong. He has braces, so his teeth will someday soon be straight for pictures. He's the best reader in class. The best. He carries paperbacks to school and James hates himself, but not enough to stop, when he starts stealing from the kid. He makes it seem like he's after his lunch money. He's got to be careful. But he takes his books. He takes them. After school, James is hiding in the bathroom, which isn't unusual, but he's staring at himself in the mirror. He starts mimicking Chrisfromlondon's accent and tries to move his mouth like he does. James envisions himself as Chrisfromlondon and stands up straighter, tries to smile. But something about his smile just isn't right. He bites the inside of his cheek angrily, bites it harder when he hears his father coming up the hall. Tries to keep biting because it's better to keep silent, dad will only get more angry if he cries. If he was Chrisfromlondon, this wouldn't be happening. He tries to smile one last time in the mirror. 

His teachers tell him he has a nack for impersonation. 

He practices. He gets tapes from the library on acting. He perfects his impersonations of TV characters, and learns to act and seem older than he is. With just a few words, the right body language, people leave him alone. 

When he's really in the mood though, when James feels like a dangerous man, he mimics his father's drunken bumbling. The walk, the slur, the hideous expression he makes, everything. He receives the belt every time. But it just makes James bitter. 

Sometimes it isn't a compliment.

When he mimics Mr. Carver's voice in class, he gets locked in one of the school closets until he decides it's been enough. The room can't be more than three feet wide. It's completely pitch black and he hasn't had lunch yet. He can hear the other kids laughing and Mr. Carver's angry pants, but it's all floating away now as this dark room begins to eat at him. He's left there until school's out. It's one of the scariest moments of his life. He thinks he's going to die in that small room until Mr. Carver opened the door wide and introduces James to the back of his hand. 

James drops out of school when he turns fifteen. It's easier this way. 

-

One particular time when they moved is more prominent, abstract and somehow more real in his mind than the others. His new neighbor is a woman in her late forties. She wears short skirts and stares at James and it makes him uncomfortable in his skin, which isn't new. He makes sure to wear long sleeves and jeans, even in the occasional heat. 

He wishes he was someone else. He has been receiving a lot of attention since he finished puberty, he's not exactly sure why. He's not tall by any standard, and his dark hair is overgrown half the time. He looks a bit mad, in his own opinion. But it's kind of hard to tell. Occasionally when he looks into the mirror he doesn't really see himself at all. Just a silhouette of a man (and sometimes not?) and he feels quite formless. He's not sure if he would recognize himself if his double passed him on the street. 

Three weeks into the move, into that apartment, and She makes a proposition. He can't find it within himself to refuse. Even as Her long fingernails play against his chest. Even as an Uncomfortable Feeling settles there and doesn't leave. 

She touches him like She loves him. 

She makes him call her mommy, and other things he's not willing to repeat. Sometimes he's a good little boy, or a man that reminds him of his father. She says that he as a talent at playing. 

He hates Her. 

But he can't refuse - he can't - and sometimes the panic in his chest builds to a crescendo and he can't fucking breathe. 

When they're in Her apartment, when they aren't "playing" 

(James feels sickness crawling up his throat) 

She tries to teach him to read. She pulls out these kids book, that must've belonged to Her own but She stays silent and James sure as hell doesn't ask, and teaches him the alphabet. He can pick out words sometimes, and She rewards him in kind. But it's sloppy, and She gets impatient and sometimes playtime hurts more than it should and he learns that there isn't such a thing as love. And that he never ever wants someone to touch him in that way again. 

When they move (far far away from that blasted apartment) James is a mix of emotions. He's glad, the relief is practically pounding his chest, She can't - won't - be able to touch him anymore. She can't. But. He won't have anymore reading lessons and despair rises in his throat. 

That next month his father finds his pile of books underneath the bed and burns them in a fit of drunken rage. James weeps. 

(that damn boy looks just like his mother)

-

He's seventeen when he enlists. It's good for James, the disciplined lifestyle. It's simple, brainwashing, and soon he loses his personality to it. He becomes anything that the army needs. There's not decisions to be made, no one calling him out on why doesn't read, no reason to be anything. He's nothing. He's an army man. And one day they need a volunteer for a secret project. How could he refuse? 

He's dreaming about books 

(Boy, you better get your bloody hide in this room right now)  
(Or else)  
(Or else? Or else what?)

that are stacked and stacked and stacked. He's afraid they might fall. He hears the voice of the specialist in his head, 'James, focus, dammnit, focus!' But he can't. The books. They start falling, one by one. He tries to catch them, but they slip through his fingertips, the words slip through his brain like whispers. Whispers. Whispering voices calling him, soft singing - the boy looks so much like his mother it makes him sick. Sick. You just need to focus, James. I know you can do this! 

(James?) 

He goes AWOL three years later. No particular reason, necessarily. One day he just woke up, he remembers it was a cloudy morning, and he looked down at his hands and realized that he was missing something. This wasn't who he is. Wasn't who he wanted to be. So he leaves. It's easy and hard at the same time. 

He starts to shape himself into the image, person, he always wanted to be. Gone now was James, gone was everything he didn't want to be there. He looks at himself in the mirror 

and decides

that he's whoever he wants to be.

-

He's walking in Greece, on the sidewalk, when a man drops his newspaper in front of him. He picks it up before it catches the wind and flies into the street. His eyes catch on a few letters. e-a-m-e-s. He figures that it's not actually a full word, but he sounds out each letter silently as he passes the paper back to the bashful man. 

E - A - M - E - S.

Eee-mm-ss. 

Eames. This must be fate.

He's created a new world of opportunities for himself. He decides that Eames likes loud. He's bold - he likes to piss people off, to make people laugh. He's confident in who he is and tries to be as ridiculous as possible. The most obnoxious shirts, the jokes, everything. Nothing touches Eames, nothing can break him. 

It's so much fun to be Eames, he decides that he wants to be him forever. 

-

He's more or less dropped back into the dream world, since it happened to be a speciality of his back in the army, in the BEFORE. And without being really qualified to do anything else, and you can't really fake your way into reading, he knows, he doesn't have much of a choice. Except now he's on the other side of the law and he likes the taste. He's good at impersonating, and his imagination is quite large, that it's only a matter of time that he would have figured out how to Forge. He uses his gift for impersonation to make himself physically change in the dream. He can become anybody. They start to call him The Forger, and it's so good. He doesn't have to stay in the same skin if he doesn't want to. It feels like he can finally breathe when he's in the Dream. 

On one mission, he's a young boy with red hair and curls. 

On another, he's a blonde with curves in all the right places. 

He learns to walk - talk - and be these people. He becomes them. He is them. 

-

The first time he meets Arthur, it's raining. He's running towards a hotel he's supposed to meet his new crew mates at, when he catches sight of a man who is also running out of the rain. He's taller than Eames, and in a drop-dead gorgeous suit that would have cost more than Eames's salary in the past four years. But when they make eye contact, James can't help the stutter in his heartbeat. He's in love. 

It takes only a couple of hours with his crew for Eames to realize that a) his soulmate is a total prat and b) is completely, and perhaps irreversibly, not interested in him. But he sucks it up, he's definitely not going to let Arthur go, but he knows it might take time for him to like Eames. But it doesn't matter, he can't take his eyes off of him. 

-

This last case he is on is just full of surprises. He realized grimly that this one might not go down as smooth as he would like. He's somehow expected to keep The Mark's attention all on himself as the crew breaks into his mind, with projections that could strike at any time. The crew is total shit, except for a certain Point Man and himself, and the time seems to be slowing rather than speeding like it usually does. There's not the usual adrenalin rush that reminds him why he loves his job, but an Architect who spits quiet, heinous, comments about Eames behind his back about his clothing choices and his ability to flirt with anybody with a heartbeat. So Eames makes sure that he's especially 'friendly' with every member of the team to piss the man off. Arthur takes it grandly, but with an annoyed gaze that James is all too happy to have on him. He's had the pleasure of knowing Arthur for the better part five years now and rather than showing his affection (he snorts) for Eames with his fists, Arthur occasionally throws him dimpled smiles and dry comebacks that make James dizzy. 

When it's show time, he's masquerading as the Blonde, and there's not one flaw in the design, he thinks proudly. He's all women from head to toe and she smiles at herself in the mirror. For all her sexy looks it's a toothy grin that smiles back in the glass. 

(never like Hers)

She smiles at The Mark and touches his upper thigh with her soft manicured hands. Hernandez Carlados has dark skin and thick hair on his head. And right now his attentions are on her breasts that practically spill out of her blue skin-tight dress. The Mark practically trips over his feet in his haste to follow her down the hallway to the toilet. Eames sways her hips slowly the whole time, pumps clicking against the hard floor. He lets him push her up against the wall, meaty hands splayed on her sides and duck his head to her neck to kiss. 

Classical music begins to play softly in his head and she smiles softly, causing The Mark to pause and smile back confusedly at her. 

The next couple of seconds move fast. Projections come running from both directions towards them, and suddenly the woman's balance is thrown as the she begins to free fall. The Mark grasps at her to no avail as he disappears from the dream. 

Eames bursts to life from where he was sitting as the team become aware. 

"Holy shit," The Architect next to him curses. "That coulda gone sideways real quick," 

"Yes, my friend it may have." Eames says drily. "If you had followed my advice, we would have left sooner and you," he points at him delicately. "Would have had all the time in the world to be a wanker." 

There's a hand on his wrist then, tight and unyielding. It makes James uncomfortable, but all Eames does is smirk as the man holds his wrist hard enough to bruise. The voice that answers Eames is low and dark. 

"I don't take advice from fag-" 

The sound of a gun cocking stops him mid sentence. The Point Man shoves his gun in The Architect's face. 

"I don't think you want to finish that sentence. I also think it would be best if you let go of Mr. Eames right now." He says coldly. "We could have gotten out of there minutes sooner if you hadn't fucked up." 

The Architect, Eames thinks his name is Allen, looks delightfully chagrined. 

Maybe Eames won't bother the stick-in-ass since he happened to ruin quite a unpleasant conversation. He rubs his wrist. 

Eames bounds up to Arthur before they leave for the airport. 

"Thank you, darling, for sticking up for me over there. Am I quite the damsel in distress, you think?" He bats his eyelashes playfully. 

"Leave me alone, Mr. Eames." Arthur says, but Eames can hear the smile in his voice, and it does leaps and bounds for him. 

James pouts, his full bottom lip jutting out. 

"No need to be cross, dearest one, I'm eternally grateful!" Hand over heart. 

Arthur pointedly ignores him and continues packing his things. His lovely suit rippling with movement. Eames takes a moment to watch and appreciate Arthur. For all his robotic-ness, and the stick up his ass, he loves to watch him doing something human. Incredibly, ordinarily human. A soft smiles plays at his lips. Arthur reminds him of books. Old ones with leather-bound covers. Filled with big long words Eames could never read. Never really understand. It makes his hands itch in movement - to reach - which is such a peculiar reaction surely, but it feels like instinct. His right hand twitches. 

He still can't read. Sure, he can read (or grasp) what signs say, but he couldn't read a book, or a paper, for the life of him. He's reminded of this every time he talks to Arthur and he feels like a small stupid kid who tries to understand things he can't. 

(why can't you just read it?)  
(James, can you not read that?)  
(stupid boy, I oughtta-)  
(stupid boy)  
(stupid) 

"Don't you have to pack?" Arthur says bluntly. 

"Hm? What, love?" 

"Pack." He gestures to his stuff, exasperated. 

"Oh, yes! Of course." Eames shuffles back and shoves the items on his desk into his pockets. There's not much to show for a month-long job. All that's on his desk is a small figurine he bought at a flee market and a pen. 

The pen was an impulse buy. It reminded him of Arthur, in a way. It was long and sleek, and had one of those tops like calligraphy pens. Mind, Eames won't ever write with it but he likes to pretend he's going to. He likes to pretend that Eames can write, that he just does it on a whim. Eames supposes that saying it was an impulse buy was a lie. Eames saw a rich looking man writing with it at a fancy restaurant and Eames took it right from under his nose when he was looking at one of the waitresses. 

He plays with it between his fingers. Then looks at Arthur. 

What the hell was he supposed to do with this. 

"Arthur," Eames starts up quietly, holding the pen loosely. 

The man turns around and looks at him blankly.

"Here." He says with a toothy smile. Careful to hide his uncertainty, his sadness. The mask, the mask, my dear, is important to wear. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, but thankfully takes the pen without a comment. James feels a little lighter, his heart a little freer, and his smile grows. 

\- 

He knew he should have never taken the Inception Job. 

He bloody well knew it. Cobbs was a downright bastard, risking all their lives, not even thinking of telling them what he knew. But the promise of seeing Arthur was too sweet to resist - his heart skipped a beat and he just had to take this job. He had to. And now Cobbs was yelling at Arthur, like it was Arthur's fault they were in this mess, and he can't take it. Can't let Arthur take that. 

(stupid goddamn kid, always in the way, it's his fault-)  
(Sarah?) 

-

Arthur, Ariadne, and him are wrapping things up from this mission (which means files upon files of words James can only reach for - but that Eames gets to touch) before they catch the next flight to their designated stops. France, for Ariadne, and back to Mombassa for him. Jolly. While Arthur chooses to remain mysterious and refuses to divulge his next location to Eames. 

"-anyways, here's the file. " Arthur says expectantly, a yellow Manila folder outstretched towards him. 

"My apologies," Eames shakes his head to clear his earlier thoughts. "What is it darling?" 

Arthur's lips are in a tight line. 

"I asked you to read out the second paragraph of this file." He says impatiently and turns his back on him disinterestedly. 

Eames can do this. It's not like it hasn't happened before that someone wanted him to read for the job. He repeats this to himself over again, his brain not believing it. Why? Why was he feeling dread crawl up his spine? 

Eames clicks disappointedly. 

"Arthur, dear, only rookies read out this stuff. Now, I've had my lot and I believe it's Ms. Ariadne's turn to the metaphorical helm." He grins at Ariadne and she rolls her eyes, but she smiles too so Eames knows he's okay. 

He starts to pass the file to her when Arthur interrupts the process. 

"Mr. Eames." He says oddly.

James can feel the dread crawl up his spine. 

(Eames. EAMES. Bloody hell.) 

(Arthur seems to bring out the James in him) 

"What, darling?" 

Arthur must know something's up, the way his eyes narrow and his jaw sets. Can the man read him that well though? He's not exactly known for his social finesse. 

"You're going to read it." He says passionately. "Just because Ariadne is younger and less experienced than your British ass doesn't mean you're going to treat her like something less on the food chain. You're always the one fooling around and calling people out on their shit. You think you're better than everyone just because you don't care, right? I thought you were better than this. Show the woman some respect." 

James freezes. Ice seizing around his heart. 

(I thought you were better than this.)  
(such a disappointment)  
(worthless)  
(can't even read it, can you?) 

He swallows thickly and picks up the file, heart thundering in his chest. He can't back down. Can't back down now. Not with Arthur looking at him like that, thinking about him like that. Maybe he can pull this off. Eames could. 

"It's okay, really. Thanks Arthur, but I can read it." Ariadne says pleasantly.

But Eames looks into Arthur's eyes and knows he's got to read it if Arthur is ever going to respect him. The second paragraph. Okay. He can do this. The first word isn't that long - he starts sounding it out in his head. 

T-H-E 

th-th-eeee

the

O-R-I-G-I-N-A-L

o-or i g (GEE? orGEE? No.)

Or-i-jin-a-l

oriiiiginaaal. 

"The hell is taking you so long? Just read it, for Pete's sake Mr. Eames." 

The interruption startles him out of his concentration. Damn. He's feeling sick. 

"Th-the o-or" his voice is shaking but he tries to keep it steady like Eames would. He's going to be sick.

"The hell?" Arthur chuckles, but it's a dark laugh that cuts him to the core, not like the usual beautiful laughs he can sometimes hear come from the man. "Quit playing, Eames. We haven't got all day. Stop being an idiot and read it. Just read it." 

Just read it, James. 

Quit being an idiot. 

Just read it. 

Idiot, read it. 

he can't 

Ariadne gazes at the Eames's deathly white face. He looks startled, like a deer, eyes wide in distant terror. Oh god, she thinks. This can't be happening. Dear god, no. He's staring at Arthur, down at the papers in his hand, a light tremor in them. 

Eames lets out this little shocked inhale, despair entering his eyes. 

Shit. She thinks. Shit shit shit shit. 

"Arthur." The man keeps talking. "Arthur," she says more urgently. 

"What?" He turns towards her in slight annoyance. 

"Arthur." 

He looks pissed for all of two seconds before the fraction of his brain that recognizes social cues, recognizes this expression as DO NOT IGNORE. TAKE A SECOND AND CHECK YOUR SURROUNDINGS. Which honestly sounds nicer to him then YOU'RE WRONG or the ever favorite YOU'RE DOING SOMETHING EMBARRASSING AND NOT SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE. MEDAY. He turns towards Eames and realization slowly goes through him, like the waking of a sleepy loin. 

"-fucking stupid can you be? Wait. Jesus Christ, you can't read? How did you get hired in the first place?" Arthur says unthinkingly and when it's out he can feel Ariadne's hand pinching his arm, and oh. Shit. 

(worthless) 

(books on top of books that he can't ever touch, not really) 

(words splayed across paper that he follows so closely) 

(it's a fucking 'e' boy, you know what sound it makes. we've been over this a thousand times and you still can't get it can you? worthless thing. guess the only thing you'll ever amount to is here. shh. it doesn't hurt that much stop being a baby, take it like a man. c'mon baby, come to mommy) 

(he's reaching and reaching and reaching for the books for a hand for something he can't reach it he's so close) 

The blood rushes through James's body like a tidal wave, hot shame and wounded pride tearing a hole into him. There's no thought, no real amount of brainwork that goes into his next move. It's all instinct and muscle memory. He swings his fist (the answer to every problem, just like his father ha. Ha. Ha.) and brings it down on Arthur's nose. 

(I'm not worthless)  
(am I?)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and I apologize for any mistakes and shit. I’ve never been to England


End file.
